Work Text:
Circulus Finis
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters within belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, and more recently, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The characters depicted I envision to be the more recent interpretations from the BBC Sherlock cast.
The familiar chatter of a thousand different dialects washes past the brunette as he turns his coat up against the bitter chill, silently relishing the feeling. The gloves on his hands feel right, and natural, like a second skin, and whilst he hasn't missed the crass language that so easily flitted through this other world, it is a price he could happily pay, just to be here. London. Home. The streets of London are as familiar to Sherlock Holmes as the veins in his hands; each going down a well-worn path. The usually calm and stilted detective feels his pulse thud, just the slightest bit faster, and he takes a slow breath to calm himself, watching in fascination as the breath stuttered in the wind, coming out in clouds.
Eight years. Eight years of solitude, of desolate wilderness, of foreign weather and kind eyes that spoke little but seemed to know far too much. Eight years in which speaking was no longer a requirement, and even less of a joy than it had ever been before. The colours of the world were far too bright in this other place, too ethereal. He has longed for London, desired it like a drug, like a cigarette, longed for the greyness and the stern businessmen. His hosts had done their best to include him, but Sherlock had never been one to join the fellow men. He stood on the outside, against the wind and on the tip of the iceberg - or perhaps, the edge of a building. To begin with, it had been a relief, a soft wind-blown from the south against the current of the north, a welcomed reprieve from all the angst and drama.
But with that reprieve, came loneliness.
The detective had eventually contacted his brother, allowed him the knowledge of knowing he was alive. There had been anger, there had been words had - not all of them bad - but in the end, something had happened between them. A cloud had lifted, a fence had been pulled apart. Mycroft had come to him, and for the first time in years, they had enjoyed each other's company. What needed to be said was still, somewhat, unsaid, but ... they had an understanding, of sorts. It had been a relief, Sherlock remembers, to confide in the man who knew him perhaps better than all but one other person. That person is carefully hidden from their conversations. Mycroft doesn't speak of them, and Sherlock doesn't ask. It is just easier that way.
Eventually, he is told it is safe to return to London, to home. By now, Sherlock knows that Mycroft would never say something just for the sake of it; he trusts him, and so, he is on the next plane, feeling a calm sort of detachment as the plane soars onward to England. He is surprised to find himself a little saddened to be leaving behind that other place, but home is home, something these people know more than anyone. They bid him farewell, and Sherlock actually feels a little guilty for leaving them so willingly.
It is only as he arrives in England, on British soil, that Sherlock is aware of how he must look. He usually does not care for the thoughts of others, but after living in that other place, he has grown to like acceptance. He books a night at a hotel, informing Mycroft first, and allows himself, for the first time in eight years, to buy something a little less simplistic to wear. The woollen clothes feel strange against his skin; he has been used to cotton and silk, the textures he wears now feel strange and foreign.
He debates putting off the inevitable, but Sherlock has never been a coward, and he won’t become one now. Besides, it’ll be just his luck if John somehow finds out he’s back, and Sherlock wasn’t the one to tell him. He can’t imagine the medic would be too impressed with him, to say the least. That is even if John will speak to him, after everything.
The detective pulls an address from the internet, eventually. He would ask Mycroft, but he’s not sure his brother would help him, and besides, he doesn’t want Mycroft more concerned than he already is. Two days later, and he is staring from the back of a taxi like a fool at the small house in which, apparently, resides the man he’d once known so well. If the exterior is much to go by, then John has changed. How much he has changed is yet to be determined.
Sherlock shoves his courage to the sticking place, and pays the cabbie, before exiting the taxi, wincing a little at the slight pain in his left foot. He shakes it off, and barely notices the way his right hand is shaking just a little, as he walks slowly up the driveway, coat turned against the onslaught he is preparing himself for as he reaches the oaken door. The detective’s pale hand reaches for the brass knocker, hesitates for a fraction of a moment, and then beats three taps against the door. No turning back now. He thinks grimly, and steadies his posture a little, waiting patiently. It is a few moments before someone’s low baritone sounds at the door, questioning the knocker, and something within Sherlock snaps slightly. He knows that voice.
Before the door can open, before he can be revealed, despite knowing they can probably see him through the peephole, Sherlock turns, and hurriedly strides towards the gate at the end of the pathway – then stops. He is not a coward. He has not given up everything in London, then returned, only to run away again. He may not deserve an explanation, he may not deserve much of anything… but John deserves the truth. The detective takes a slow breath, swallows, then spins round and abruptly moves to the still-closed door, knocking once more.
The door swings open, and Mycroft’s face blinks at him, a little apologetic in its gaze. “Sherlock.”
“Brother.” Sherlock quickly appraises him, draws his conclusions, and stores the information for later, trying to understand why it should affect him so. He pushes the thought aside for now, and concentrates on the present. “Is he here?”
“He’ll be here shortly.”
“Good. Can I-“
“-why don’t you come-“ They speak at the same time, and then cut off, Sherlock eventually nodding and moving through into the house, glancing about slightly before taking a breath, and turning to face his brother.
“So…” he begins, and then trails off, completely unsure as what to say.
“Sherlock, I…” Mycroft is as bad at this as Sherlock, and they both know it. He clears his throat, and gestures to a doorway on Sherlock’s right. “How about some tea?”
The gesture is futile, but appreciated. Sherlock nods once, and moves through into the room, taking in the expensive furniture, the delicately designed walls. Part of him recognises that John would never choose these fixings; had been happier with a simpler home, had liked things simple, if somewhat messy. But John, it seems, has changed. That statement is evermore true as Sherlock catches sight of a picture tucked away in an inconspicuous corner on a bookshelf, and he stares at it for a few moments, then flicks his eyes back towards the door, where his brother has departed, presumably to find and make tea.
When Mycroft eventually returns, there is little conversation, and even less eye-contact. Sherlock uses his tea – which is frankly, awfully made - as a distraction, and his brother follows suit. Nearly an hour later, a key jingles in the door lock, and both their sets of eyes move towards the door. Sherlock’s fall once again to his cup, and quite suddenly, he realises that this strangeness is something he cannot be a party to. China clicks together as the cup slides onto the saucer, then onto the table, and Sherlock stands up; too late, as John walks through the doorway into the living-room. Sherlock swallows, meets his old friend’s eye for a brief moment, and shrugs on his coat once again. “I’ll be in touch, Mycroft.” He states, ignoring the somewhat dazed look in John’s eyes.
“Wait, wait…” John’s voice is slightly protesting, but the detective ignores it, buttoning up his jacket and beginning to plot his departure – he will not call it an escape – already. “You…. But I saw you fall.”
Sherlock knows very well what the man is referring to, and originally he had intended to reveal the truth far gentler than he does, but his fingers are shaking, and he is annoyed at himself for this lack of control. “I’m sure my brother can explain it all to you,” there is a flickered glance towards Mycroft, who looks suitably uncomfortable. Good, Sherlock thinks, a little petulantly. “If he hasn’t already.” The last words are added with some bitterness, as Sherlock turns the flaps of his coat up; grateful for the protection it gives him. “Must be off, lots to do. Take care, John.”
“Stop.” John’s hand stretches out and is suddenly on Sherlock’s arm. The brunette is silent, his gaze falling on the bookshelf which holds that picture, determined not to look at John. “Just stop. You were dead, Sherlock. You… are dead. You’re supposed to be dead. We-” there is a noticeable crack in John’s voice, but Sherlock wills himself against it. “I buried you.”
“It was a ruse. I told you before, I’m a fake, and now you know, because I faked my death as well.” These are not the words that Sherlock had planned to say to John, but they spill from his lips without a second thought. He is grateful when John’s hand falls from his arm, beginning to make his way towards the door. “Must go. Be in touch.” It is an empty promise; he will not be in touch. Not with John, and perhaps not with Mycroft, either. Truly, it is by far better to be alone than to be burdened with emotion.
“Sherlock, please…” John’s voice holds some tinge of emotion that the detective does not understand, and does not want to. He glances over at the man, his own gaze cold and unassuming.
“Goodbye, John.” He speaks calmly, and watches the other man shudder at the words, apparently remembering the last time they were spoken. He doesn’t look at Mycroft, simply turns his body, and walks out of the living-room, through the hallway, and out of the oaken front door. There is no taxi waiting for Sherlock – he hadn’t thought he would need to – but Sherlock is grateful for the walk, despite the time it will take to get back. To get back to what, he is uncertain. But he knows he needs to pull his thoughts together, to deduce exactly what has happened these years he has been gone, despite feeling that he already knows, anyway.
There had been so much he had wanted to say. Sherlock was not a great one for emotive talking, but with John he had been prepared to make an exception. There were things that, at the time, he had thought John would want to know, things that the ex-medic should know. Now, they all seem impossibly irrelevant. After all, Sherlock thinks with a bit of bitterness, Mycroft knows far too much, and probably has already told John. He wonders, somewhat idly, whether John would have sought him out, if he had not chosen to seek the other. Deciding that it is all irrelevant, the detective walks on, down the streets he does not know, and away from the person he had come back to London for.
Some hours later, he finds himself in a hotel, happily unrecognisable, with people who do not know who he is. Eight years was enough to make him forgettable once more, it seems, and Sherlock has never been more grateful for it.
He takes a deep breath and sinks onto the bed, ignoring the churning in his stomach as he thinks about the past, and closes his eyes, using the technique he’d been taught in that other place to force his mind into numbness. It is only now that Sherlock registers the trembling thud of his heart, the shaking of his hands, the way his breath is stuttering out a little. It is unlike him to get like this, but he cannot help it. For eight years, he had thought of nothing but getting home, of going back to the flat in Baker Street, and back to John, who somehow is always wrapped in that idea of home. Those illusions have been shattered, and now he berates himself for ever thinking them in the first place.
Later that night, Sherlock tucks away that secret hope and thought, in a small, unnoticeable drawer within his ‘Mind Palace’, and is almost grateful when the familiar sense of detachment starts to sweep through him.
{I}-{I}-{I}
Through the next months, life is a blur to the detective, as he shifts mindlessly through each hour, finding little things to keep him occupied, but steadily getting more frustrated. In that other place, he had been happy to do little; it had been a welcomed relief, a reprise for the soul, but here, in London, it is a curse; the busy lives of others seem to mock him with their presence, as Sherlock’s own life sweeps by with little to no consequence. He considers returning to the other place, but he knows that he will not be able to recreate the sense of peace he’d once found there. He is tethered to London, fragments of memory and treasured feelings that are woven into the fabric of the city. Besides, it has almost come to feel like home again. Almost. The brunette has finally acquired himself a flat; though with no flatmate, nor friendly landlady, and no cases to work on.
He spends his days making sure to stay under-the-raider. It wouldn’t do, after all, for the police force to find out that he was alive again. That is, of course, if they don’t know already. Days, months, weeks, a year floats by, and Sherlock is no longer recognisable. If possible, he is thinner than before, his face gaunt and unhealthily pale, shadows under his eyelids, his eyes still bright, but with fatigue rather than intellect and hope. Even now, he has not yet left London. He is unable to. There is too much here, too much familiarity, too many strings. He has kept track on his brother and John from the shadows, and is relieved to see that whatever it is they have seems honest. They are both happy for it, and Sherlock ignores the tightening in his chest, where his heart is supposed to be, at the mere thought. But John deserves happiness, as does Mycroft, and Sherlock is grateful they have found it.
It is when he witnesses them signing for a flat together that the final decision is made. They both seem happy, and from his spot in the shadows, Sherlock smiles a little at the relaxed look on each man’s face. Enough now, he thinks, and steps away, drawing his coat up against the cold winds as he heads for home.
{I}{I}{I}
He has been back in that other place for nearly six months, and finally feels as though he belongs somewhere once again. The family he had stayed with before are delighted to see him, and Sherlock feels a warmth somewhere in his soul at how welcomed he feels. As the months tick by, he begins to feel lighter, freer, and happier. He is accepted here; no longer a freak, no longer an outsider. He keeps to the shadows in most things, but Sherlock is more relaxed and himself than he ever has been before. Sometimes, in the bright and airy bedroom that he has been given as his own, the detective thinks of them together, and wonders what might have happened if he had stayed. He is grateful now that he hadn’t; knows that there would have been more awkwardness than he could endure, and perhaps things wouldn’t have turned out the way they have if he had.
Despite the occasional yearning, Sherlock stays away from them, stays away from London, and remains in that other place. He hopes they have all but forgotten him, knowing it would probably make things easier. He doesn’t flatter himself with the thought that he is the type of man one might remember, after all.
Six months later, and snow is pelting down on the small house. Christmas is not a time Sherlock has ever appreciated, but with this family, he finds himself drawn into the celebrations, and actually enjoying it. The atmosphere is relaxed and stress-free, and Sherlock feels a certain lightness he hasn’t felt for a while. When present time comes, he is surprised to receive gifts, but accepts them with a smile, holding back the desire to deduce what they are, having learned by now that sometimes, ignorance can be rewarded.
At the end of the night, there is but one final present that sits next to the tree. Sherlock’s eyebrow rises as his host passes it over to him, with an explanation in her smile. He takes it with awkward fingers, looking for a card and finding none, puzzling over it a little even as he opens it. The breath is knocked from his chest as Sherlock stares upon a violin case. His hands shake, just a little, as he zips open the bindings of the instrument, barely aware now that anyone else is in the room. It has been years, years since he has played, and he has never quite had the courage to purchase another violin. Somehow it feels like betrayal. But upon unzipping the case, Sherlock’s face breaks into a soft grin, as he takes in the instrument. Yes, this is most definitely his instrument. He breathes a soft sigh, touches the wood lovingly, stopping only as he realises there is a piece of paper attached to the case.
Opening it, Sherlock stares at the writing, ever familiar; throat tightening a little with the unfamiliar threat of emotion, as he reads the simple print.
“Sherlock, we kept this for you, but thought it was time to return it. Merry Christmas. John and Mycroft.”
There are so many things that are running through his mind; so many thoughts and deductions his brain is making from this simple phrase, but one thing is quite certain; his brother and John somehow know he is here, and have made the effort to send him this gift, this treasure.
It is the most that Mycroft has ever done for him.
Taking a slow breath, Sherlock pulls out his phone, and brings up Mycroft’s number. Feeling the eyes of the room upon him, he quickly types a message, not quite ready to talk, but not wanting to ignore what they have given him.
Thank you. SH.
Almost instantly, there is a beep from his phone, and Sherlock glances down at the incoming message, his lips forming into a soft smile.
You’re welcome. Merry Christmas. Keep safe. MH.
The need to ring them is almost overpowering, but he doesn’t. Christmas, after all, is apparently for those who one finds dear to them, and hopefully his brother and John are spending it together. He does not need to change their equilibrium by phoning them in a fit of homesickness. The detective eventually retires to his bedroom, his host family knowing him well enough to leave him be. He sits upon his bed, the violin firm, polished and familiar beneath his fingers. It has been so long since he has played…
{I}{I}{I}
On the anniversary of their moving into their new home, John is surprised to see an internationally delivered padded envelope dropped onto the welcome mat. He picks it up, and turns it over in his fingers, puzzling over it for a moment, before shaking his head and moving to the living-room, where Mycroft is sitting, the paper pulled out as he reads. John clears his throat, and gently taps his partner on the shoulder with the envelope. The brunette looks up with a raised eyebrow, frowning and taking the item from the grey-haired man, his eyes skimming over the writing, but there is little to deduce from it. Plain envelope, standard issue, typed lettering – Goudy Old Style font, size ten. There is no return address, just a stamp to say it has passed into British soil. He glances as John, who nods, and Mycroft carefully tears the envelope open with a finger, frowning a little as a cd is revealed. He makes a noise in his throat, and stands, moving over to the CD player, and popping the thing in, letting it play.
The sound of a violin fills the room in a tune he does not recognise, and he hears John’s breath catch in his throat. Mycroft turns towards John, and pulls the man towards him, a little possessively, but a natural reaction after hearing that CD. The tune goes on for several minutes, but Mycroft does not need to ask who the player is. A brief memory flashes in his mind of his brother, seven years old, playing tunes that Mycroft could not, and Mycroft becoming rather irked and shouting for his brother to stop the scraping.
Sherlock’s melody cannot be called scraping. It is a masterful piece of music, written with feeling and thought, and though Mycroft doesn’t’ know it’s exact purpose, or why Sherlock felt the need to send it to them, he is certain that his brother has his reasons. As the tune draws to a close, both John and Mycroft give a soft breath, Mycroft’s of relief, and John’s of… well, he’s not entirely certain. Sadness, remembrance, and yes, a little yearning. There are a few beats of silence, and then a voice speaks; one that they both know so well, seemingly filling the room. “Happy anniversary, Mycroft, John.” The CD screeches to a stop, and the two men turn and stare at each other. John’s eyes are suspiciously bright, whilst Mycroft’s are dry, but his throat is tight with emotion. Neither of them know quite what to make of this, and Mycroft finds himself selfishly praying that Sherlock is not intending on returning and setting their lives into chaos again.
He pulls his lover close, and the two simply stand, breathing each other in, trying to stumble past the shock of this moment, together.
In that other place, so many thousands of miles away, Sherlock Holmes sits, his violin propped up against a chair as he stares at it, thoughtfully, hoping that his brother and the closest friend he’s ever known have received his token, and see it for the acceptance it truly is.
{I}{I}{I}
They do not hear from Sherlock again. Mycroft is somewhat relieved, and if he’s completely honest, so is John, though his relief is marred a little by guilt. He cannot help but feel as though there is still something left unsaid – and there are, many things – but they have no place in this time. So he hides all those thoughts and feelings, hides them from Mycroft, who is wonderful in his own way, but who will never be Sherlock, and learns to love what he has, rather than what he wants.
Fifteen years to the day since Sherlock’s CD arrived, and there it is. In black and white, a tiny announcement that shouldn’t attract a lot of attention, but apparently had been put there by someone who wanted the world to know.
Sherlock Holmes
Died of unknown causes.
Contact for further information.
There is a phone number, and John briefly considers ringing it. He glances over at Mycroft, currently seeing to the laundry, and decides not to. Mycroft barely reads the paper these days, and the announcement is so unobtrusive that he doesn’t think his lover would have noticed, anyhow. Scribbling down the given number on a paper and slipping it into his pocket, the ex-medic swallows back the tiny sense of guilt as he tosses out the paper, hoping that nothing more will come of this.
He rings the number only once, but it calls through to a cheerful sounding Indian lady, and John ends up hanging up on her, frustrated with himself for not being able to understand the language. He sees Mycroft watching him over the next few days, and eventually, he has to speak out.
“Mycroft…” over dinner isn’t perhaps the best time to talk, but Mycroft’s eyes are on him now, and it seems there is no turning back. John swallows. “There is something you need - something you should know. About…” he hesitates. “Sherlock.”
Mycroft sighs, and puts down his fork, dabbing his lips with a napkin before staring hard at John for a moment. “I am well aware of the situation, John.” He speaks crisply, though John knows by now that it is the only way that Mycroft knows to avoid conversation.
“Situation?” he prompts softly, unsure if Mycroft really knows, and wondering if he does, why he hasn’t said anything.
“I assumed you knew.” Mycroft sighs a little, his face impassive as he glances as John, then takes a sip of his wine. “I was informed of my brother’s passing, thank-you. I did not think it needed to be discussed.” John opens his mouth, and closes it, swallowing briefly before giving a slight nod, and returning to his food, unsure what else to say.
And that is it. They return to their dinner, but John’s heart feels a little heavy, whilst on the other end of the table, Mycroft’s beats a guilty dance of tranquillity, knowing now that no one will try to take John from him, that Sherlock cannot come back and claim what is not his any longer.
In that other place, standing upon a rock and looking out at the scenery, a silhouette plays a requiem upon a violin. Once he is done, he turns his trademark coat up against the gathering winds, and smiles a tired smile at a nearby tree. “Farewell, Mycroft, John.” And with that, Sherlock Holmes disappears into the fabric of time once more.
Finis.
Author’s N: Comments and criticisms are much appreciated. Please be aware this was my first attempt at Sherlock related fiction.